


There's No Air Left For Me

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [24]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Biological Weapons, Chemical Weapons, Chemicals, Episode: s01e23 Ua Hiki Mai Kapalena Pau (Until the End is Near), Hurt Spike, Medical Inaccuracies, Other, Poison, Poisoning, Seizures, Spike Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you hit?” The team leader asked, pulling his lover free of the vest and searching him for any wounds but Spike shook his head and sunk to the ground—wheezing and doing everything to keep his eyes open because there’s no oxygen. He’s too hot, and the sweat that’s sliding down his skin has to be coming from his throat because it’s so dry it’s cracking and falling apart—he’s surprised it isn’t bleeding, and he wishes it was because the blood would at least sooth the drought. </p>
<p>Why can’t he breathe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Air Left For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Muse returned for a little Whump Spike adventure--hope you guys enjoy. *eyes comment box greedily*   
> Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments, you have no clue how happy they make me. :D  
> Anyway, the plot for this was taken from an episode of Hawaii Five-0 (it's up in the tags). 
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint nor the characters. I do not own the plot of Hawaii Five-0's "Until The End Is Near" episode. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

There’s no thought that runs rampant through his head; there’s no fear, no hesitation—it’s simply force of nature, trained into his skull like the codes he’s typed far too many times. He pressed his fingers against the woman’s neck, cold and pale, but there’s no pulse under her skin. It’s an odd clash—she’s still as the Canadian ice, but the shattered wine glass on the countertop above her is dripping red liquid onto the floor; it’s more alive than her. It’s the blood that she hasn’t spilled.

“Nothing,” Spike echoed into his headset, continuing to sweep the house—and it feels more like a murder scene investigation than a kidnapping site. Everything’s silent, everything’s _dead._

It turns out that way, too; the whole house is lifeless—kidnappers and their victims and the rooms themselves. They’re all gone.

Walking back to where Greg had set up command—the truck, the circle of cruisers—Spike felt something digging at his throat. Just a tickle, and he tried to cough it away but it only heated the inside of his mouth and left him feeling like a corpse under sand dunes. The bomb tech pulled at the collar of his SRU gear, frowning and confused, as he opened his mouth to ask for water but nothing would leave his lips.

Just a gasp—rough and ragged, like the flesh of his airway.

Staggering, the brunette pulled at his gear—he can’t _breathe_ , and everything _aches_ and _burns_ like he’s on fire. Why can’t he _breathe_?

Ed’s standing before him, having rushed over from where he was going over information with Greg, blue eyes frantic and concerned. He’s asking questions, but Spike just shook his head and tried to pry his tactical vest from his torso. He can’t _breathe_ ; the material’s too heavy on him—he needs air.

“ _I._.” the bomb tech gasped, desperate to pull air into his lungs but there’re blackspots in his vision and his throat feels too tight. “c- _ca_ n’t _bre_ -eath _..e_.” It’s broken and choppy and shaky—a duet of his coughing and his fractured voice that’s sunk from too high to too faint. There’s no air in his lungs to carry his speech.

“Are you hit?” The team leader asked, pulling his lover free of the vest and searching him for any wounds but Spike shook his head and sunk to the ground—wheezing and doing everything to keep his eyes open because there’s no oxygen. He’s too hot, and the sweat that’s sliding down his skin has to be coming from his throat because it’s so dry it’s cracking and falling apart—he’s surprised it isn’t bleeding, and he wishes it was because the blood would at least sooth the drought.

Why can’t he _breathe_?

“ _I need a medic_!” Ed howled across the street, and Greg’s racing over while Sam’s scrambling out from the command truck. “You’re fine, buddy, you’re fine. Just stay with me, alright?”

Spike clawed at his skin—fingers scrabbling at his swelled airway—, and his rasps are far more desperate—and Ed restrains him, too confused and terrified to come up with any reassuring words to whisper in the bomb tech’s ear. The brunette’s fighting, though—thrashing and trying to breathe but the older sniper presses him to the ground; the man’s blue eyes are haunted, but Spike’s vision is too blurred to tell.

“Just stay still and try to breathe for me, okay? Spike!”

“C- _ca_ -n-‘t,” Spike tries again, and his tone is so distorted it spooks him. His throat’s swelling up, and his voice cuts off. Ed just holds him still, gaze still desperately sweeping for whatever was causing this, but even with all the training and experience panic’s setting in. His lover’s lips are turning blue, and his skin is far too white, and Greg—who had just slid to a halt—is just as lost. Sam’s running alongside the stretcher, barely keeping upright as he takes in the situation.

_WHY CAN’T HE FUCKING **BREATHE**?_

Without any warning, Spike’s eyes rolled back and his jaw clamped shut—body tensed and shaking as convulsions captured his limbs. There’s still no air getting to his lungs—and his chest isn’t moving up and down; the ribcage is only jittering along with the seizure. His eyes are wide in alarm, but unseeing in shock. They’re glazed over; absent and half-gone as his body shudders unwillingly.

Ed’s swearing up a storm, and Greg’s shocked into stillness, and Sam’s helping the paramedics haul Spike’s shaking body onto the gurney. They’re shouting—trying to reach over Ed’s horrified voice— _what happened_?.. but no one knows.

“He just said he couldn’t breathe!” the older sniper explains, and Greg’s got a hand clamped over his teammate’s arm.

“Was he exposed to any chemicals?” the medic asked, hurrying back to the ambulance as the trio tries to keep up and not fall over in dismay.

“The whole house was dead—no injuries,” Sam spits out, “all had foam coming from their mouths and were blue.” It hits him, just as he says the words. It hits them all, and their insides are smashing against their skin just as violently as the sway of their lover’s body. There’s froth on Spike’s lips, seeping from between his clenched teeth.

“What chemical killed them?” The paramedic asks, fighting to get an oxygen mask on his patient as he secures the stretcher in the ambulance and barks that they need to leave. Sam jumps in, and no one wants to think about how he has the most experience seeing the effects of biological agents on soldiers.

“Nerve agent,” Greg called just before the doors slam shut—because they know that much, know what the suspect had been working with. It’s all catching up with their fractured minds, that Spike’s frantic attempt to breathe and his spasms are not wounds or an injury—it’s something in his blood, something from an exposure.

The paramedic stilled—then his hands are scrambling, and his voice is too sharp—too unwavering yet hesitant.

“It’s Sarin.”

Sam’s world fell apart as he repeats the words over his headset—his hand clasped tightly with Spike’s as he tries to keep himself together.

It’s Sarin. _It’s a biological weapon._

And Spike still can’t breathe.

And now, neither can Sam.

 

* * *

 

Everything’s muddled; the voices he can hear off in the distance, the odd twilight dancing behind his eyelids, and the sensation of heat and pressure. But it’s there, so that has to be at least a start to something.

“C’mon, buddy, time to get up…” _Ed._

“I thought the doctors said he’d be awake by now?” _Sam._

“He will, Sam, don’t worry.” _Greg._

It takes a lot of effort, and abandoning the tranquility between sleep and awareness is only won by wanting to see his lovers’ faces, but Spike managed to slowly blink his eyes open—and receives far too many praises for it; if he had any blood in his face he’s sure it would turn him beet red.

“That’s it,” one of them coos, and Spike’s sure it’s Greg because Sam and Ed had sounded far too agitated before. “Open your eyes; we’re right here.”

“Ugh,” the bomb tech manages—and his throat is still dry, damn it. “Wh-,”

“Sh,” Sam quieted him, and Spike will bitch at him later for that but for now he lets it go—mostly because his blonde partner presses a cup of water to his lips. He wants to gulp it down, choke on it like he’d choked on the lack of air, but a pair of hands presses him back against the hospital bed and the liquid moves away from his mouth.

“You’re okay,” Greg pacifies him, not divulging any details like the bomb tech is wanting, “that’s all that matters.”

Then Sam scrambled onto the tiny hospital bed, curling into the small space that Spike’s body isn’t filling, and the bomb tech lets Ed card his hand through his brown hair as Greg firmly plants a hand on their younger lover’s leg while giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He can see, even though his vision’s still blurry, Ed’s other hand wrapped around the negotiator’s wrist—and it brings a small smile to his face, even if his throat’s still splintered and his entire body twinges.

“Don’t,” Sam starts, voice low, “Don’t do that to us again, Spike.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” the bomb tech grated out—and Greg moves his hand to hold the cup of water out for him. “Not exactly fun.”

“You’re the bomb expert, not the _chemical_ expert,” Sam continued to rant, and Ed’s rolling his eyes as Greg lets out a huff.

“Hey,” Spike croaked, feeling sleep wash over him as his eyes start to close and his voice turns into a rambling mutter, “I’m skilled at a lot of stuff.”

“Yeah, buddy, you are.” Greg smiled, falling silent as they all keep their breathing shallow—all so that they can hear Spike’s.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Silent, so that they’re assured he can _breathe_.


End file.
